Auckland Poetry

The Cleaner

My cleaner is here, she’s from Angola has many
children and is abandoned by her husband; she is
very efficient cleans very well, but she smell and
I often wish she would remember to scrub herself.

I sit on the terrace it’s covered so it doesn’t matter
if it rains, and I feel wretched and middle class and
wonder if I’m a despicable racist for thinking this
way she’s a good mother and work very hard.

She knocks tells me she’s ready to go, I pay, open
the front door, smile and say: “till next time then.”
scold myself for not being more friendly; perhaps
I ought; let her go and hire one I don’t feel sorry for.

Who’s afraid of ghosts?

There they are driving in my almost new car,
sleeping in my bed and using my computer,
they have no shame. I’m angry but can do nothing,
I’m dead and so pathetic that they don’t even see
me when I walk through the house as a ghost.

I have met other ghosts around here they are
a wretched lot, can’t let go of things they had before
and can’t take with them wherever they are going;
so they hang around full of envy hoping the world
will collapse around the ears of the living